The Cake is a Pie
by wordybirdy
Summary: <html><head></head>It's Mrs. Hudson's birthday, and John has a fabulous idea.  Sherlock hates the sound of it.</html>


"Did you know that it's Mrs. Hudson's birthday on Saturday?" John called across to Sherlock, as he shrugged himself out of his coat at the sitting-room door. "She's been keeping it pretty quiet. I only found out because I just caught the postman and there was a card for her. So I took it through to her and she told me. Sherlock? Sherlock, are you listening to me? Mrs. Hudson's birthday."

"I heard you," said Sherlock. He was lying on the sofa, his long limbs contorted so imaginatively that from John's perspective he rather resembled a cloth-covered pretzel. He raised his head and grimaced at John. "It's Mrs. Hudson's birthday on Saturday. Fine. I suppose you want to get her something. Put my name on the card too, will you?"

"No, wait," John moved across and stood in front of the sofa, blocking the view of the television. "You're not getting out of it as easily as that. You are_ not_ going to leave everything up to me again. You are one lazy article, you know that? I'm busy, and you're not - look at you - so you can buy the birthday card. We'll think of a present later, there's no mad panic."

Sherlock sighed the sigh of the much put-upon. He dunked a Rich Tea biscuit into his mug and threw John the look of the most-petulant. "Birthday cards are boring," he said. "Do I have to?"

"Yeah," said John, "you do. Shove over, I want to sit down." He threw Sherlock's legs off the sofa, ignoring the mews of protest. He picked up the TV magazine and flipped through it. There was a rather delicious looking recipe for a chocolate cake inside the free cookery pull-out section. He examined it. It seemed simple enough. The home-made touch. Always appreciated. Better than a manky old china figurine of a cat or a box of lemon scented bubble bath and soap.

"I've got an idea," he said. "We should bake her a cake."

"No we bloody well should not," said Sherlock, sounding faintly aghast at the idea. "Marks & Spencer sell cakes, or weren't you aware of the fact? You need to get out more often."

"It's a nice idea," John insisted, "and Mrs. Hudson would appreciate it. She'd love the fact that we took the time and trouble to bake her something rather than buying a bit of old tat from some gift shop or other. Would you know what to buy her, anyway? No, I thought not. A cake it is, then. This is a good recipe, look." He shoved the pull-out at Sherlock. Sherlock squinted at it.

"Our cake would never look like that. I've never baked one in my life, and you'd be equally as useless."

John narrowed his eyes. He folded up the recipe page, and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. Tomorrow morning he'd nip out to the supermarket and pick up the ingredients. Tomorrow afternoon they'd bake a cake. And it would be spectacular. And Mrs. Hudson would thank them profusely, and maybe sniffle a bit, and be forever indebted and grateful and possibly even lower their rent a bit. Well, perhaps not that last bit. But anyway, she'd like it.

"Tomorrow morning, you go out and buy Mrs. Hudson a birthday card, Sherlock, all right? And for God's sake don't buy one with a football on it, or aeroplanes, or anything rude or stupid, OK? Get one with flowers on it, something like that."

Sherlock grunted. John supposed that that had sunk in, but you could never be quite sure with Sherlock. "So what do you have to get again?"

Sherlock huffed in exasperation. "A card with flowers on it! I _was_ listening, John, I _can_ do more than one thing at a time, you know, I do have an attention span."

"Yeah, well, you should pay more attention to that biscuit. You just lost half of it in your mug."

* * *

><p>The next morning, the Friday, Sherlock and John set out on their individual Operation: Birthday missions. Sherlock made off in the direction of the local card emporium, and John headed for Tesco. He had his handwritten note on which he'd scribbled <em>milk, butter, sugar, cocoa, eggs, vanilla essence, flour, baking powder<em>. That was everything. Yes, he was organised, he'd got it sussed out. John whistled as he marched along the baking aisle, filling up his basket with the Stuff to make the Fabulous Cake.

One hour later, the participants of Operation: Birthday convened at 221B to report back on progress. Sherlock fished out a small plastic bag and tossed it to John.

"There," he said. "It's got flowers on it and everything. Mrs. Hudson will love it."

John pulled the card from the bag and looked at the front. He looked again. He looked up at Sherlock, who was sitting with an expectant smile on his face.

"You've bought a _Get Well_ card," said John, quietly. "The top of the card says 'Get Well Soon!'. Didn't you bother to read that?"

"I was looking for flower pictures. You told me flowers. It was in the birthday card section. Or really, really close to it. We can cross that bit out, can't we? Or stick a bit of paper over it that says 'Happy Birthday'? Don't make such a fuss. Anyway, Mrs. Hudson'll probably need a Get Well card after she's eaten your cake, so it's killing two birds with one stone, really, isn't it?" Sherlock looked hopefully at John. John looked murderously back.

"You stupid great TWAT," he said, balancing on that fragile cusp between laughter and despair, a feeling so familiar to him now; both hands clamped to his forehead. "No we _can't_ stick a bit of paper over it! How bloody daft would that look! And shut up about my cake! Oh for crying out loud, I'll be back in 10 minutes."

Ten minutes later, a replacement card had been purchased. As it had been John doing the purchasing, this card was indeed of the birthday variety, with a photograph of a small kitten sniffing up at a large hanging-basket of colourful flowers. 'Happy Birthday!' sang the front of the card. 'May your day be everything that you wish it to be!' trilled the inside. Sherlock inspected it carefully. He placed it back upon the coffee table with the barest of hurt huffs. He preferred the flower design that he himself had bought, but he thought that if he voiced that opinion aloud then John would do something excruciatingly painful to him, and he didn't want that.

"Cake?" he asked.

"Cake." replied John. "Cake now. Come on."

They moved through to the kitchen area. John had laid everything out neatly upon the table-top. The recipe sat in the middle. The photograph of the cake was luscious, desirable, eminently edible. It was everything that a cake should aspire to be. John swallowed anxiously. He'd baked a cake before. Once. He couldn't remember how it had tasted.

"Right then," he said, "Sherlock, you can prepare the chocolate mix, that's the easy bit. Milk, butter, sugar, cocoa, Go. Read the quantities, melt it all in a saucepan until it boils. Then let me know that it's ready. Got that?"

"Yes," mumbled Sherlock. He eyed John miserably. He looked at the recipe. It might as well have been written in Swahili. Anyway. Six ounces of sugar, blah blah boring, here we go.

John, meanwhile, was cracking eggs into a bowl, mixing them in with the flour, adding the other ingredients _oh so gradually_, and feeling rather proud of himself. His arm started to ache from the stirring. It was tough, being a Master Baker. The mixture finally began to resemble a smooth cakey gloop, and John stepped back. He looked across at Sherlock, who was frowning into a saucepan.

"I think it's ready," Sherlock pointed at the pan. "It's bubbly and it smells and I don't want to stir it anymore."

"Put half of it in a jug in the fridge, then, and give me the rest."

John poured the remaining half of Sherlock's mixture into his bowl, and stirred everything together. Perfect. It couldn't be more perfect if it tried its damnedest. John tipped up the bowl and spooned the contents out into the waiting baking tray. He opened the oven which was just now at the right temperature, and placed the tray inside. He closed the oven door, and turned around to Sherlock.

"We've just made a cake!" he exclaimed gleefully.

"_You_ made a cake, you mean," replied Sherlock. "I just stirred a saucepan full of muck until it bubbled."

"Shut up and be happy. We've just created something beautiful together. One hour and it should be ready. Let's have a cup of tea."

Sixty minutes later, which John had felt was an eternity, the oven door was open and two pairs of eyes were peering inside. John donned a pair of oven gloves and pulled out the tray.

"It's a bit… flat? Is it supposed to be like that?" Sherlock sounded dubious.

"No. Crap. Bugger." John grabbed the recipe and scowled at it intently. His face fell. He looked at the flour bag, then back to the recipe, then back to the flour bag.

"I used plain flour instead of self-raising." John kicked the table leg. "_And_ I forgot to add the baking powder." Sherlock sidled out of the way just in case John wanted to kick him as well.

"Maybe if we layer on the chocolate stuff that's in the fridge really thickly, then that'll make it look like a real cake?" Sherlock suggested helpfully.

"It IS a real cake, you idiot. It's just a flat one. It smells good, though. But I don't think we can give it to Mrs. Hudson. It would make a really rubbish birthday present."

John looked at his watch. Plenty of time. Operation: Birthday, Plan B. "I'll be back in 10 minutes."

* * *

><p>"Boys, how <em>thoughtful<em> of you! Thank you so, so much. It looks absolutely delicious."

Mrs. Hudson beamed delightedly at the strawberry pie, so attractively boxed and tagged on the table in front of her.

"Happy Birthday, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock and John chimed in, almost but not quite synchronised.

"It could almost be home-made, it looks so nice," their landlady continued. "And the card is lovely. Thank you."

"You're very welcome," John said, with an affectionate flick at Sherlock's left ear. "We hope you enjoy the pie."

"Hmm, yes," said Sherlock, after they had left 221 and were on their way back upstairs. "Marks & Spencer are good for pretty much everything, aren't they?"

"Yes," said John, "so shut up. Fancy another slice of flat chocolate cake?"


End file.
